


A little like water, a little like light

by crackinthecup



Series: Ends and Beginnings [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Telepathy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: “The coming of the Elves was unlooked for. As was your return with the jewels, if I might add, and the war that it has brought.”“Careful, lieutenant. You keep the true intent behind your words veiled from me, but your tone is plain enough. The Silmarils are mine by right. I will not surrender them for the sake of anyone or anything on this earth.”Long years have passed since Melkor’s escape from Valinor, years filled with war and bloodshed, disappointment and resentment.After exchanging harsh words with his master, Mairon decides to join an outgoing company of Orcs during what will later come to be known as the Dagor Aglareb.But not everything goes according to plan.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Ends and Beginnings [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112774
Comments: 20
Kudos: 78





	1. Silent shock

**Author's Note:**

> A shout-out to @elevenelvenswords over on Tumblr who was kind enough to listen to me screaming about this idea, and also to @cherryandcheek who sadly isn't active in the fandom anymore but helped me flesh out the main plot points when I first came up with the premise for this fic a few years ago.

Mairon strode into the armoury nestled in the bowels of Angband, and soldiers and servants alike scurried away before the fire of his eyes.

His mood was black. Power burst beneath his skin, pulsing golden and glittering through his veins, scorching the air around him with relentless heat.

He had left his master’s side in anger only a short while ago. Words had been exchanged between them, harsh and bitter, and now he turned them over and over in his mind.

_“My lord, I must advise against this. Now is the time for caution—we cannot send the remainder of our troops into the fray, not when the enemy’s numbers and intentions are still unknown to us.”_

_“Do not speak to me of caution. You have been cautious for too long. It was through your inaction that those wretched Elves gained entry into our lands. Why was there no watch on the shores? Why were there no outposts in the south?”_

_“The coming of the Elves was unlooked for. As was your return with the jewels, if I might add, and the war that it has brought.”_

_“Careful, lieutenant. You keep the true intent behind your words veiled from me, but your tone is plain enough. The Silmarils are mine by right. I will not surrender them for the sake of anyone or anything on this earth.”_

Mairon scowled as he dressed himself in his armour with more vigour than was strictly necessary. For three ages of the world he had devoted himself to the upkeep of Angband in Melkor’s absence. With unfailing diligence he had tended to the needs of the fortress and its citizens; with a heavy heart he had thought of his master imprisoned at the hands of the Valar, and had hoped for his return.

But that day had come and gone, and since then Melkor had hardly spared a moment of his attention for him. There were no words of praise, no acknowledgement of his tireless efforts, of the loss he had stoically shouldered all these years. There were only the Silmarils: their holy, hurting light, the way they seemed to sear into his master’s retinas until Melkor could see little else.

The jewels were pretty enough, Mairon could not argue against that, but they were hardly worth going to war over.

Within minutes Mairon was ready, clad head to toe in black plate armour crawling with runes of strength; his eyelids were daubed with magicked ochre that glistened like freshly spilled blood, and his double-bladed sword gleamed cold and sharp in its sheath at his side.

He scooped up his helmet, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the armoury towards Angband’s upper levels. A fresh regiment of Orcs was due to head out imminently to the aid of the troops being hounded across Ard-galen by the Noldor, and Mairon intended to join them.

If Melkor would not heed his advice, then his time was better spent in the thick of battle. It would not do to sit behind the impregnable walls of the fortress idly awaiting news of defeat. Every instinct he had screamed at him to _do_ something, to drown out the incessant thoughts of his master in the blinding adrenaline of battle. He would rather fall on his own sword than spend one more minute dwelling on the acrimony between him and Melkor that burned in the back of his throat like smoke.

And so, he pressed on through the winding corridors of Angband. He was running late. From the higher levels of the fortress he could hear the tread of armoured feet, and the deep-throated cry of a horn as the troops made ready to depart. He picked up his pace. The few Orcs that crossed his path kept their heads down and hurried on their way. No one dared to speak to him until he reached the main thoroughfare of Angband spilling out to the gates.

“Mairon!”

At the sound of his name he paused, lips curled in displeasure. He turned around, ready to snap at whoever it was to be on their way, when he noticed that the person striding towards him from the direction of the throne room was Thuringwethil.

“Mairon,” she said again as she caught up with him, “I was hoping to find you.”

“What is it?” he asked, failing to wholly bite back his annoyance.

Thuringwethil gave him a sharp look. “Lord Melkor asked me to pass on a message. He requests your presence in the throne room as soon as possible.”

“Well, tell Melkor that I’m busy, and that he should mind his own business.”

With that Mairon turned to leave, but Thuringwethil stopped him with a hand on his gauntleted arm. “Mairon, hey,” she said, and at the concern in her voice he wanted nothing more than to tear himself away from her grasp and from these halls and from Melkor’s presence hanging like a grim spectre over all. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he snapped. “I just need to catch up with the troops and you are currently delaying me.”

Thuringwethil ignored the barb. “Are you going into battle?”

“Of course.”

“Does Lord Melkor know?”

“He doesn’t need to know everything that goes on in this fortress.”

Thuringwethil narrowed her eyes at him, tightening her grip on his arm when he made to pull away. “You’re in no fit state to fight right now.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“You’re upset, Mairon, and I would wager it has something to do with Lord Melkor.”

Mairon did not reply; he simply gave her a baleful glare, but Thuringwethil would not be daunted. She drew herself up to her full height, pinning him with a stern stare of her own.

“Don’t do this, Mairon. If this is nothing but a masochistic way to blow off some steam, then there are plenty of alternatives that don’t involve the risk of being maimed or killed. Go spend some time in your forge instead and then talk to the master.”

“You do not command me, Thuringwethil,” Mairon spat; in one violent motion, he twisted his arm free of her grasp.

“This is no command! I am your _friend_. I do not want to see you getting hurt.” Thuringwethil took a step back from him, and sorrow shone in her dark eyes. “Neither does Lord Melkor.”

Mairon huffed out a derisive breath. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Mairon—”

“I will see you later.”

Abruptly Mairon turned his back to her and began striding at pace towards the main gates. He heard her calling to him as he emerged from the darkness of Angband into the louring light of the sun sinking huge and crimson towards the west: “This is needless!”

But he made no reply.

***

Night had fallen by the time they came within sight of the battle in the midst of Ard-galen. It was worse than their most pessimistic estimates: only a handful of scattered Orc battalions remained of the army they had sent to Dorthonion a few short days ago. For the most part the Orcs were leaderless, haphazardly fleeing the bright swords of the Noldor that pursued them from the south, east and west.

Mairon barked out a few quick orders to his captains. They had the numbers to flank the Noldorin troops and give the beleaguered Orcs a chance to rejoin their comrades. With a deafening shout the fresh regiment of Orcs surged forwards, and for a moment the Elves stayed their onslaught. But if the Noldor had intended to regroup, they did not have the time. From east and west the Orcs poured into their ranks like a monstrous wave, and the air was filled with the clash of swords and the screams of the dying.

Mairon led the eastern charge, and as the battle closed around him he unsheathed his sword, snapping the two halves apart at the hilt and wielding them as dual blades. His power flared bright and deadly within him, and the runes on his armour lit up with a fiery radiance like magma bursting in fury from the core of the earth.

His blades sang. The Elves fell before him like chaff. Quicker than sight, before his enemies even had the chance to react, he cut them down, and behind each swing of his blades there was a surge of power so fierce that flesh sizzled and bones turned to ash.

The battle was bloody. Though Mairon sowed fear into the hearts of the Elves, he could not win the victory on his own. All too soon the fresh troops of Orcs started to dwindle before the might of the Noldorin army. The eyes of the Elves were bright, their swords were sharp; from their lips rang out the name of Varda, and on that moonless night the stars seemed to burn with a white fire that made the Orcs shudder.

“To me!” Mairon shouted above the din of battle, sensing that his troops were losing heart.

He side-stepped an Elf who lunged at him, twisting with preternatural speed to plunge his blade into the back of the Elf’s neck. Northwards across Ard-galen he made his way, leaving the grass glistening with his enemies’ blood, leading the Orcs back towards Angband. For weeks the peaks of Thangorodrim had spewed noxious fumes towards the skies, and no light could penetrate those black vapours to trouble the denizens of the fortress. There, the Orcs might rally, or flee to safety if all else failed.

“Fall back!” Mairon cried, and the call was taken up by the few commanders who remained standing.

The Orcs retreated, some ditching their weapons in favour of speed, and Mairon positioned himself firmly at the back of the much diminished regiment. Rage still burned red-hot in his veins; his muscles trembled with violence, and any Elf who dared to approach him did not live long enough to regret their decision.

But time wore on. The miles to the shadows of Thangorodrim were long. Mairon felt his blades growing heavier in his grip. His attention began to slip, his reactions came a fraction of a second more slowly; the flame of his power flickered and burned more dimly.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an Elf jogging towards him. A sword flashed silver, the blue plume on the Elf’s helmet fluttered in the breeze, and Mairon twisted, thinking to block the blow aimed towards his head, but too late, _too late_.

The angle was wrong; the Elf’s sword slid against his own uplifted blade in a screech of metal, pulling free and cleaving through his armour, splitting open the flesh of his neck. Mairon snarled, righting himself, readjusting his grip on his blades, but the Elf was gone, making for one of their own kind lying motionless in the grass.

Left alone, Mairon pressed a hand to his neck, and his gauntleted fingers drew away slaked in blood. It gleamed almost black in the starlight, and for a moment as Mairon stood there a horrible wave of dizziness crashed through him.

He pulled himself together with fortitude that could only arise through years of military training. The wound was nothing to scoff at, but it was hardly lethal. He let his power seep into it, over the ragged edges of his flesh, bidding them knit back together.

By now he had fallen far behind the bulk of his troops. He stepped forward, putting one foot in front of the other again and then again. There was no fear; only a sense of urgency. He took a steadying breath, prepared himself to break into a sprint.

The next thing he knew was the world tumbling around him, blurry at the edges, a dizzying mess of light and sound and the looming black of unconsciousness; his troops still so far away, the enemy closing in around him with shouts of victory.

Then there was nothing but darkness.

***

Mairon came to slowly, as though floating up from deep underwater. He did not open his eyes immediately. He simply let the silence wash over him, peaceful and endless, and wondered if he might have time to nip to his forge later in the day.

All of a sudden he remembered the battle on the plains of Ard-galen. The memories hit him like a punch to the gut: the screams, the blood, the glowering stars; the blade slicing across his throat.

His eyes flew open. He was in his own chambers, tucked under the blankets in his own bed, and to his struggling mind it did not make any _sense_. He pushed himself up into a sitting position with a groan that sounded thin and strange in his ears, and made to swing himself around and clamber out of bed.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Easy, Mairon,” Melkor said from the chair at the side of his bed.

He looked over to his master sitting there in plain clothing, a book splayed open across his lap and a grave expression on his face. He opened his mouth to ask Melkor what had happened, but the words came out as little more than a whine. His brows knitted together in a frown. He tried again, tried to form a few simple words, but his vocal cords seemed incapable of producing anything other than a strained, garbled noise.

Uncomprehendingly he clutched at his throat, and as his fingers brushed over thick layers of bandages panic began to set in. This was _impossible_ : he had not thought the wound very deep, certainly not deep enough to cause lasting damaging. Surely he had not been mistaken? Once again he tried to speak, bent all his will on it, but his voice failed utterly and he was left staring at his master in silent shock.

Melkor gingerly pried his hand away from his throat, threading his fingers through Mairon’s own to stop them from shaking.

“This is temporary,” he assured him in a tone so gentle that Mairon could hardly recognise his voice. “The wound was grievous, but the healers have treated you to the very best of their ability. You will make a full recovery in time. A great deal of your power was spent on...” Melkor trailed off, looking at him with a strange glimmer of pity in his eyes. “Well, on the battlefield; you will feel weak for a few days, and may not notice much improvement. But with enough rest your power will return in full measure, and your body will then begin to heal.”

Mairon squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to Melkor’s hand. The failure stung, it sank bone-deep and settled there like a physical weight. He had allowed himself to be maimed by a nameless Elf—he, the mightiest of the Maiar to walk upon the shores of Arda, his master’s second-in-command who had ruled the fortress for three ages of the world and had done it well. What was he supposed to do now? Cower in his bed while the Noldor grew bold? Wait till the walls of Angband were thrown down by lesser beings? Such a profound feeling of uselessness welled up from the pit of his stomach that he wanted to claw at his own skin.

His face must have betrayed something of what he was feeling because Melkor reached out with his free hand to brush his hair back behind his ear, saying, “It’s all right, little one, you’ll be all right. It will only be a few days, I promise.” His lips quirked upwards in a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “We can still talk, you and I, if you open your mind to me, and there’s absolutely nothing going on in the fortress that you need to worry about until you are back on your feet.”

Mairon let out a shaky sigh. He breathed in and then he breathed out, one, two, three times, calming himself. He had never found despair to be particularly useful.

Even during his first days in Melkor’s service, it had been easy to let his thoughts flow freely into Melkor’s mind, and at such close proximity it took almost no effort at all. It was a process that felt as natural as breathing, or the beating of his heart; a connection that seemed to have always been there, forged before the beginning of time. Mairon extended his awareness outwards, allowing his consciousness to lap at the shadowy edges of his master’s.

_How did the battle go?_ he asked into Melkor’s mind.

“Ill,” Melkor replied out loud, and through their connection Mairon could feel the anger seething beneath his words as though it was his own chest that was burning with rage. A second later it vanished, seemingly yanked out of reach by an invisible hand. “But come, no more of these matters. You need to rest.”

_I need to know._

Melkor shook his head. “Mairon, listen to me—”

_I am the lieutenant of this fortress. I need to know._

“The Elves have the victory. None of our soldiers survived.”

_Who brought me back?_

Melkor hesitated, looking away from him; despite the candlelight flickering over his face in hues of red and orange, his skin took on the pallor of ash.

_Who was it?_ Mairon asked again, squeezing Melkor’s fingers still twined through his own.

“No one.” Abruptly Melkor met Mairon’s gaze, staring at him with unnerving intensity; something raw lingered behind his eyes, something that made Mairon’s chest hurt. “I found you.”

_What?_

Melkor set his jaw, and to Mairon it seemed like their conversation had come to an end. But after a few moments of silence Melkor began to speak, his voice quiet and toneless as though he were recounting something that had happened to someone else:

“I searched for you everywhere when you did not heed my summons. But you were not in your forge or in your rooms, not in the library or the mess hall or the dungeons or the mines or anywhere else in the fortress. I called a council, asked if anyone had seen you, and I was told you had gone out in gear of war.

“I looked for you among the dead. For hours I turned over every corpse, touched every footprint and slick of blood searching for a sign that you had been there. I found nothing.

“I was about to give up the search, convinced that you had been taken prisoner, when I saw you: you were lying face-down in a pool of blood. Still alive, but only barely.”

Melkor passed a hand over his brow. He looked as tired as Mairon had ever seen him.

_How—_

“Once incarnate, the spirit will go to extreme lengths to protect its current physical form. It typically takes less energy to heal than to make anew. In your case, I fear, most of your power had already been expended in battle, and the effort to keep you alive nearly pushed it to the breaking point.

“But no matter,” Melkor added before Mairon could ask any further questions; he set his book aside and stood up. “You are safe now.”

He fluffed Mairon’s pillows, quite needlessly. For a moment he hovered at his bedside, looking like he wanted to say something else. But then he took a step back.

“Try to get some sleep. I have business to attend to, but I will be back as soon as I can.”

Mairon watched as Melkor picked up his robes from where they lay draped across the back of the chair. For the first time he noticed that Melkor was not wearing his crown; it was perched on the bedside table, the glow of the Silmarils facing away from the bed. Mairon could not recall ever seeing his master without his iron crown since its forging.

_Thank you_ , he said, blinking in the sudden piercing light of the jewels as Melkor fitted the crown upon his brow.

Melkor nodded. Despite the harshness of that holy light, there was a softness to his features that made unbidden tears prickle at the corners of Mairon’s eyes.

Melkor turned on his heel, striding towards the door and shrugging on his robes as he went.

Then he was gone.


	2. A missing note

The days dragged on. Mairon’s condition improved, but progress was slow, much too slow for his liking. Melkor would not hear of him leaving his bed, so there he lay, hurt and hatred and resentment festering in his heart.

_I will not surrender them for the sake of anyone or anything on this earth,_ Melkor had said of the Silmarils. As though picking at a scab to the point of infection, Mairon found himself returning to those words in the rare moments when his master was not by his side. Melkor’s obsession with the jewels was unfair, unwise, unjust for more reasons than Mairon could count: perfectly logical reasons related to military strategies and the running of their kingdom.

It was not any of those reasons that made his heart clench painfully in his chest every time Melkor strode through his doors with that holy light blazing upon his brow.

Mairon occupied himself as best as he could during his master’s absences: sneaking out of bed to retrieve the stack of reports lying unread on his desk (which Melkor sternly forbade when he found him sitting upright in bed, ink stains on his hands and face, furiously scribbling annotations in the margins of a report on Angband’s dwindling supplies of siderite); making edits and additions to a book he was writing about the various reducing agents commonly used in smelting (which Melkor grudgingly allowed); or simply folding stray pieces of parchment into neat little shapes, beasts and flowers and even a tiny paper sword that he was particularly pleased with (which Melkor actively encouraged).

His friends visited him sometimes. Gothmog was caught up in the fallout of the disastrous fight against the Noldor and did not have much time to spare, but Thuringwethil came as often as she could. Mairon had never conversed with her through the wordless telepathic connection that had developed so naturally between him and his master. But Thuringwethil was willing to try, and though it left them both feeling rather exhausted, soon enough he was able to chat to her as normally as possible given the circumstances.

One particular day she came to him when the sun was already drooping down into the west. Several books were clasped in her arms and her usual sharp smile was on her face.

“I brought you these,” she said, depositing the pile of books onto Mairon’s lap and then perching herself on the chair at his bedside. “From my personal collection.”

Mairon picked one up. _A Day in the Life_ was written in faded letters on the cover and below, smaller but no less faded, was the name of the author: _Srishnal_. Mairon made a face at Thuringwethil; her smile widened.

He knew the Orc well. Far more skilled with a pen than with a sword, Srishnal had sought his advice on building a printing press a few years prior, before Melkor’s return to Angband when the fortress was not yet wholly focused on war. Mairon had agreed to offer his input, and so Angband’s small but dedicated literary community had been born. Srishnal had penned several novels that steadily rose in popularity, mainly about illicit encounters of the indecent variety.

_This isn’t really my preferred type of reading material_ , Mairon grumbled.

“I know, I know—you only read stuffy old books that have more numbers in them than words,” Thuringwethil replied. “This will be a good change for you.”

_Thu—_

“You are simply bursting with gratitude, I know, but I will hear no more of it.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Besides, it will give you something to talk about with the master.”

_There is absolutely nothing you could do to me to make me talk about this with him._

He pushed the words into Thuringwethil’s mind with a small smile, expecting a teasing laugh in return, a crude joke, the banter that always came so easily between him and Thuringwethil; but her face darkened.

“I’ve been meaning to bring this up, actually,” she told him, and her voice was solemn. “Have you talked to him since the battle?”

Mairon sat up a little straighter against his pillows. The smile faded from his face. _I_ _talk to him every day_.

“You know what I mean.”

_I don’t think I do_.

“Don’t be stubborn, Mairon,” Thuringwethil retorted, and held his gaze for several charged seconds until he looked away. She let out a heavy sigh. “You cannot let resentments fester. I do not know what words you exchanged with him, whether in anger or hurt or spite, but you need to address what happened, and you need to let it go.”

Mairon made no reply. He resolutely stared at one of the books in his lap. He read the title of it over and over in his mind to keep other thoughts at bay, darker thoughts, thoughts that never needed to be voiced.

“Mairon—” Thuringwethil began, her voice tinged with frustration; but she stopped talking when the door swung open and their master strode into the room.

Mild surprise was caught across Melkor’s face at the sight of Thuringwethil, but he greeted her pleasantly, saying, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, my lord,” Thuringwethil replied, standing up, and she had closed off now, her voice distant and formal. “I was just leaving.”

Mairon remained silent, eyes still fixed on the book in his lap. Thuringwethil grasped his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Remember what I said to you before you rushed into that battle. No one wants to see you getting hurt.”

She made to leave, but in the fraction of a second that it took her to turn around, Melkor had stalked forward. He loomed over her, blocking her way, his eyes cold and hard as ice.

“ _What did you say?_ ” he snarled at her, and his voice had changed, his entire _being_ had changed; he was the dark lord of legend, his every word dripping with malice and violence thrumming in his every muscle.

Mairon immediately picked up on it; Thuringwethil did not.

“It is not important, my lord,” she replied to him, still cool, still deferential.

“Oh, I daresay it is,” Melkor growled. “Did you see Mairon before he went to battle? Did you know where he was going?”

The temperature in the room was dropping. Shadows that had not been there a moment before moiled in every nook and cranny like rabid waters. Melkor took a step forward; Thuringwethil held her ground, but Mairon could tell by the expression on her face that she had realised where this was going and that it would not end well.

“I did,” she said softly.

“Why was I not informed?” Melkor had not raised his voice, but every syllable seemed to seep into the very stones of the mountain, thrown back in preternatural amplification, harsh and cold and ruinous.

Thuringwethil hesitated; Melkor’s patience ran out.

He lunged at her, fingers poised to crush her neck in a deadly grasp, but in that moment Mairon leaped out of bed and threw himself between them.

He knocked Melkor’s arm aside with as much force as he could muster, then stood rooted to the spot, swaying, glaring up at his master. His eyes were alight with flame, a rich, burning gold, and before him the shadows gave way.

“No,” he croaked out; fire seemed to rip up his throat as he forced his vocal cords into use, but still he continued to speak, “Do not hurt her. She had nothing to do with this.”

He closed his eyes as darkness speckled across his vision. Melkor stepped closer, making to scoop him into his arms, but Mairon planted both hands firmly on his chest and kept him at a distance.

“You should not be out of bed,” Melkor scolded. The anger was gone as though it had never been there at all; the room was bright and warm once more; from behind him, Mairon heard Thuringwethil let out a shuddering breath.

Mairon ignored Melkor’s words. “Promise me you won’t hurt her.”

Melkor glanced at Thuringwethil over his shoulder, giving her a curt nod. It was as much apology as anyone was likely to get from him.

It would have to do.

Satisfied that Thuringwethil was not going to be torn limb from limb right then and there, Mairon turned back towards his bed. This time he did not push Melkor away as his master curled gentle fingers over his upper arm, steering his unsteady steps.

Mairon’s eyes were closed by the time his head hit the pillow. He floated in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, grateful that Melkor took the time to pull the covers up to his chin and tuck him in.

Even such a simple exertion left him feeling utterly drained, but he did not care, not right then. He was warm and snug and tired, and such concerns seemed very far away.

There was a creak as Melkor sat down on the chair at his bedside. His voice washed over Mairon in lulling snatches of conversation as he exchanged a few quiet words with Thuringwethil.

“You are a good friend to him, Thuringwethil.”

“I tried to stop him from going into that battle.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was a pause. Melkor repeated the question, more softly than before.

“I did not wish to meddle in any private matters between yourself and Mairon, my lord.”

“Private matters?”

“Again, my lord, I did not press for details, but it seemed to me that there had been a disagreement.”

“Ah, yes. That much is true.”

Footsteps sounded across the floor as Thuringwethil made her way to the door.

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“It is not my place, my lord, but…”

“You may speak freely, Thuringwethil.”

“Mairon takes such things to heart far more than he lets on. He tends to pretend that he does not feel as deeply as he truly does until he cannot pretend anymore, by which time too much hurt has already been caused.” Thuringwethil sighed. “I know you care for him, my lord. If it is not too bold of me to suggest, perhaps it would help if you yourself broached the matter of your disagreement with him.”

“It is too bold, though I would expect no less of a friend of Mairon’s.” There was a smile in Melkor’s voice. “You are a creature of shadow, Thuringwethil, but you perceive things more clearly than those who dwell under the brightest of lights. I will consider your suggestion.”

There was a click as the doorknob turned.

“Please take good care of him, my lord.”

“I give you my word.”

The door snicked shut. The silence was unbroken save by Melkor picking up one of the books still scattered across the bed and slowly flicking through its pages.

***

If healing had been slow before, now it was practically nonexistent. The exertion of intervening between his master and Thuringwethil had proved too much for Mairon—at least, that is what he told himself, and anyone who asked. In truth, he had been thinking too much, one thought leading to another and tumbling ever downwards to places in his mind that left him feeling cold, hollowed out: a husk of something grander, something holier, something he was not sure had ever existed in the first place.

He had taken to sleeping as much and as often as he could. He would not eat unless explicitly ordered to by his master. He would not read, he would not write, he would not fold little pieces of parchment into the shapes that had brought him such simple joy only a few days before.

The only improvement was that he would speak. His voice was hoarse and ragged, his words few and halting as his throat still pained him, but he would respond when spoken to; it seemed to please his master.

It was a cool, dark evening: the stars were veiled by the fumes of Thangorodrim, and the shadows were unbroken save by the fire crackling in the hearth. Melkor had opened the windows to let some fresh air in, and now he was sitting in his usual spot at Mairon’s bedside, pressing a steaming bowl of vegetable broth into his hands.

Mairon scowled. “I don’t want it,” he said, pushing the bowl away.

“It would do you good to eat something,” Melkor countered without any real heat.

Mairon did not reply.

“Come, little one,” Melkor tried again, and the slight note of concern that crept into his voice made Mairon want to slap him.

Melkor handed him the bowl again and this time Mairon took it, holding it so tightly that his fingers started to hurt from the heat of it. For what seemed like hours he stared into its depths, at his reflection glowering back at him from behind a chunk of carrot, and was overtaken by an impulse to hurl it against the wall, to watch it shatter into a million pieces.

With an immense effort of will, he set it aside on the bedside table.

From beside him he heard Melkor sigh, but he did not look at him, did not look at anything at all. His gaze grew unfocused. He knitted his fingers together on top of the bedspread, rubbing his thumb over one of his rings in compulsive reflex.

“What’s wrong?” Melkor asked him, and the concern was fully there now, sharp and urgent.

Mairon forced himself to bite back a bark of laughter. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“I know when you’re lying, my love.”

Mairon’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto Melkor’s. Something in him seemed to crack open at the endearment. His chest felt full to bursting of something a little like water, a little like light. He realised that tears were sliding down his cheeks, but made no move to wipe them away.

“I know why you went into battle that day,” Melkor added in a low voice, and Mairon caught himself thinking of how beautiful his eyes were: a piercing blue that seemed to cut down to the meat of him, the bone and the marrow and the soul underneath it all. The iron crown had once again been relegated to the bedside table, and the light in Melkor’s eyes seemed so much brighter without the ceaseless glow of the Silmarils.

“Do you?” Mairon asked, not because he doubted Melkor’s words, but because he needed to hear more; there was a hole in the fabric of him, a missing note in his Song, and in that moment he felt sure that if only he allowed Melkor to speak, he might finally feel complete.

“The Silmarils are mine,” Melkor replied and the whole world held its breath. “I will not allow them to come to harm or fall into the hands of our enemies.” He paused, reaching out to Mairon, cupping his clasped hands in both of his. “But you are mine as well.”

It was not enough; it was everything Melkor could give.

Mairon shook his head to clear it. His tears were drying. “I could have made you jewels that would have been the envy of everyone from here to the depths of the Void, if only you had asked. I could have filled them with light, pure and blinding. I could have made them beautiful.”

“You could have done all that and more, I do not doubt it. But you could not have trapped _this_ light in any jewel east of the Sea.” Melkor glanced at the Silmarils on the bedside table, and his face twisted with such rage and longing that all further protest died in Mairon’s throat.

“You did not see it,” Melkor continued, and his voice shook with barely suppressed emotion. “You did not see the light of the Two Trees. It was so bright, Mairon. It burned, it laid bare, it sanctified. You did not see my brethren sitting their false thrones, basking in that light as though it was the beginning and end of their holiness, the beginning and end of all they wanted to achieve on this earth: the same earth to which they laid unlawful claim, the very same that they abandoned.

“The Silmarils contain the last remnant of that light, and that makes them holy, it gives them meaning, it gives them _power_. They are no weapon of war, I know that all too well. But they are here, and Valinor is darker than it used to be, and my brethren are afraid.”

Melkor paused. He seemed to grow in stature, seemed to shed his cares and injuries, and for a moment Mairon saw him as he had seen him all those millennia ago: a colossus with an unshakeable purpose, a being that was a god that was a force of nature.

“Arda is mine by right,” Melkor said, speaking more softly now, but that did not seem to matter; his voice struck Mairon as though it was lifted in Song. “Manwë and Varda and the whole accursed lot of them will see it before the end.”

And then Melkor smiled, and his eyes glowed as he looked at Mairon, as he looked _through_ him to the _hurtloveworship_ underneath. “Will you be at my side when they bend the knee?” 

Those were the same words that Melkor had spoken in secret long ago when the world was young and Mairon was sworn to the service of another. So many things had changed since then, many more than Mairon cared to count. And yet, there were some things that would not and could not change.

In later days Mairon would wonder whether their fates could have been different had he chosen another answer. Always yes, of course, _of course_ , but paired with something else, something to give Melkor pause: _You never needed a crown_ or _Let the Valar fence themselves in and rot_ or _We will wrest back the rule of Beleriand from the Noldor. Uncharted lands stretch eastwards for leagues upon leagues. That can be enough for us_.

He said none of those things.

It was not love, it was not piety, not duty or loyalty or ambition. It was all of them crushed together to become something that had no name, a chimera blooming in his chest when he opened his mouth to answer. It was the little moments that history did not record: the brush of Melkor’s skin against his own, the taste of his power like the air after rain, the way something in the core of him seemed to soften when he was alone with Mairon.

_Will you be at my side when they bend the knee?_ Melkor had asked him.

A smile plucked at the corners of Mairon’s lips, sad and tender and knowing.

“Where else would I be?”


End file.
